


Archaeologists Do It In The Field

by significantowl



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Community: summerpornathon, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Merlin do a little fieldwork in the Shetland Isles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Archaeologists Do It In The Field

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the summerpornathon alternate universe challenge (slightly edited version).

"Well, what is it?" Arthur snaps, when the silence has gone on too long and taking in the barren, windswept landscape has lost its charms. "Old Norse? Pictish? Something new and unexpected that will forever change the accepted history of the Shetland Isles and net us publishing credits in the process?"

"Shut up," Merlin says, "and let me read."

"Oh, now you're interested. Moaned the entire fourteen hours on the ferry from Aberdeen -"

Merlin begins pointedly reading out loud. He's lying on the ground in the shadow a crumbling Iron Age wall, tracing the runes before him with a slender finger. Arthur moves closer. The script looks like ogham, the language as yet unknown, but Merlin doesn't hesitate over a syllable. The words curl off his tongue, each sound a certainty.

Arthur shifts. Merlin keeps repeating the inscription, as if his mind will find the key if his tongue traces the shape of the lock enough times. Maybe it will. Arthur doesn't know, Arthur's too caught up in the rhythm, the sound.

He shifts again. Left foot-right foot. It's no good. There's pressure building in his jeans, and it's not going anywhere. Like everything having to do with Merlin, it's completely out of Arthur's control.

"Arthur, come here."

Arthur chokes before he realises that Merlin's attention is still on the stone. Clumsily, he starts to kneel - _fuck_ that isn't helping, there's a moment where he dizzily wonders if his cock might pop right out the top of his waistband.

Merlin grabs at Arthur. His fingers are cold, wrapping around Arthur's forearm; it bleeds through Arthur's jumper. "You'll have to lie down to see properly."

And God help him, Arthur does. He sucks in a breath when his cock first brushes the earth, hisses it out when his weight settles and the pressure mounts, a low, persistent throb.

A quiet part of his brain already knows there's no going back.

Merlin's pointing at something half-hidden by scrubby grass; Arthur will have to shift on his elbows to see it. Merlin's talking. Arthur should be doing a better job of listening, trying to hear words rather than pure, dripping sounds -

Such a tiny little motion. A centimetre forward. That's all it takes to kill Arthur's self-control.

 _He'll tell Merlin he's going to take a piss. He'll go over beyond the wall, undo his zip. Wrap his hand around his cock -_

"Arthur," Merlin says. "Help me make a rubbing."

Arthur can't speak, at first. Has to close his eyes. "Can't do it by yourself?"

Of course Merlin can't. Over his racing pulse Arthur hears Merlin rummaging in his duffle; hears rustling and then a _snap_ in the wind. "Hold this."

Arthur swallows. Opens his eyes. Complies.

He locks his arms to hold the tracing paper against the stone; the worst thing is, that gives his body leverage. His hips jerk, rutting his cock into the ground. Arthur squeezes the muscles in his arse to try and _stop_ , but all that does is intensify the pounding between his legs.

The ground is damp. If he comes in his jeans, Arthur can blame the wet spot on Shetland mud.

Merlin's wiggling closer, arms snaking between Arthur's to hold a charcoal against the paper. Arthur doesn't know when he starting biting his lip, but he's beginning to taste blood.

"Here we go," Merlin says, and begins to move.

Merlin throws his body into it - shoulders, upper back, all the way down to his waist - all moving in time to the dark swipes the charcoal makes against the paper. His lips, too, because he's saying each rune as it appears, mouth close to Arthur's ear.

All accidental, Arthur assumes. Typical. Clumsy, overenthusiastic, oblivious Merlin.

Except...

What's pressing against Arthur's side can't be the buckle of the belt Merlin wears to keep his jeans from sliding off his narrow hips. Something hard, yes. A belt buckle, no.

Oh.

"Now he gets it," Merlin says.

Arthur doesn't move. Doesn't reply. Just breathes.

"Say something rude if it makes you more comfortable," Merlin suggests.

But Merlin's mouth feels far too good against his own for Arthur to bother doing that. And the little gasp Merlin makes when Arthur rolls over, lining their bodies up properly, is more delicious than any sound he's made all day.

Merlin pulls back, laughing. "You realise I'll always remember that you undid your own zip and put your hand on yourself first?"

"Shut up Merlin, I'm getting to you," Arthur says, and does.


End file.
